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“Rather what I knew of the poor in Europe.
I told him some things I knew of that hopeless land,
that priest-ridden, king-ridden country—­my
own land. Then he went on to tell me of America
and its hope of a free democracy of the people.
Believe me, I listened to Mr. Calhoun. Never
mind what we said of Mr. Van Zandt and Sir Richard
Pakenham. At least, as you know, I paid off a
little score with Sir Richard that next morning.
What was strangest to me was the fact that I forgot
Mr. Calhoun’s attire, forgot the strangeness
of my errand thither. It was as though only our
minds talked, one with the other. I was sorry
when at last came the Grand Vizier James to take Mr.
Calhoun’s order for his own carriage, that brought
me home—­my second and more peaceful arrival
there that night. The last I saw of Mr. Calhoun
was with the Grand Vizier James putting a cloak about
him and leading him by force from his study to his
bed, as I presume. As for me, I slept no more
that night. Monsieur, I admit that I saw the
purpose of a great man. Yes; and of a great country.”

“Then I did not fail as messenger, after all!
You told Mr. Calhoun what he desired to know?”

“In part at least. But come now, was I
not bound in some sort of honor to my great and good
friend, Sir Richard? Was it not treachery enough
to rebuke him for his attentions to the Dona Lucrezia?”

“But you promised to tell Mr. Calhoun more at
a later time?”

“On certain conditions I did,” she assented.

“I do not know that I may ask those?”

“You would be surprised if I told you the truth?
What I required of Mr. Calhoun was permission and
aid still further to study his extraordinary country,
its extraordinary ways, its extraordinary ignorance
of itself. I have told you that I needed to travel,
to study, to observe mankind—­and those
governments invented or tolerated by mankind.”

“Since then, Madam,” I concluded, stepping
to assist her with her chair, as she signified her
completion of our repast, “since you do not feel
now inclined to be specific, I feel that I ought to
make my adieux, for the time at least. It grows
late. I shall remember this little evening all
my life. I own my defeat. I do not know why
you are here, or for whom.”

“At what hotel do you stop?”

“The little place of Jacques Bertillon, a square
or so beyond the Place d’Armes.”

“In that case,” said she, “believe
me, it would be more discreet for you to remain unseen
in Montreal. No matter which flag is mine, I may
say that much for a friend and comrade in the service.”

“But what else?”

She looked about her. “Be my guest to-night!”
she said suddenly. “There is danger—­”